


Safety Off

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Casino Royale (2006)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is more distracting than firing a gun; without the added rush of adrenaline of a fight, without an actual person in front of the barrel, it's almost soothing. (Yuletide treat)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca/gifts).



Every bullet hits the target dead centre. He fires with the cool precision of a machine, trying to time the shots exactly until their monotonous rhythm drowns out his thoughts. For a short while – just those few moments until the magazine is empty and the rhythm is broken when he has to reload – the memories of Vesper's face, her hair afloat in the water and her eyes wide with desperation and fear, are drowned out by the gunfire.

He reloads, focuses, shoots again. Tries to lose himself in this. Nothing is more distracting than firing a gun; without the added rush of adrenaline of a fight, without an actual person in front of the barrel, it's almost soothing. Almost, but not quite.

It's nearly enough.

He notices the shift in the air, the distinct prickling at the back of his neck that tells him he's not alone anymore. He sends another bullet through the target's head; then he spins, abruptly, and aims the weapon at the intruder.

Villiers doesn't even blink, as if facing down a gun is something he does every day. Bond keeps the weapon trained at him for a few extra seconds, with the sole purpose of unnerving the man. Eventually, the subtle raise of an eyebrow (_Cocky bastard!_) challenges him to do something and, without lifting his gaze from Villiers, he swings his gun arm to the side and fires. Villiers' eyes flicker to the target, but Bond doesn't need to look to know that he hit it dead centre, right where the heart would be if it were a person.

If Villiers is impressed, he doesn't show it. He'd be a good poker player, Bond can't help but think. The thought brings back memories he's trying to repress, and he slams it down like the lid to Pandora's Box.

"You've had a meeting with M scheduled ten minutes ago. She doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Bond shrugs. "Tell her I'm busy."

"You're not, you're just… playing around." The edge of distaste in Villiers' voice, combined with the sneer that tells him exactly what Villiers thinks about his priorities, grates on his nerves like dry chalk on a blackboard.

"Tell you what." He pauses for a moment to lazily fire another round before continuing his offer. "You show me how well you do with the gun. If you prove to be adequate, maybe I'll let you order me around. Otherwise, I suggest you get lost."

There is a second or two when Villiers looks like he'll tell Bond that he has no time for his games, and Bond already has the insult and the dismissal ready. It never comes to that. Villiers' jaw sets, his expression once more schooled into studied nonchalance. He holds out a hand, and it actually takes Bond a moment to catch on and realise that Villiers is asking for his gun.

He hands it over and watches Villiers fire three shots into the target's torso without blinking once. They're not dead-centre, but aimed well enough that they'd have done the job pretty thoroughly. It's better than Bond had expected. But then, he hadn't expected Villiers to take him up on the challenge in the first place. So, yeah, maybe he's a little impressed.

"Not bad for a secretary."

"Assistant," Villiers corrects, and Bond can't quite figure out whether the rebuttal is perfunctory, or if Villiers is just taking the piss.

He shrugs. "Same thing, different word. I never much cared for political correctness."

"You don't say." Now there's definitely amusement in Villiers' voice, enough to make Bond see beyond the prissy façade for once. And what he sees intrigues him enough to draw out this game for a little longer, curious what Villiers will do if he ups the stakes.

"You've done this before."

"I never claimed I didn't," Villiers counters, and his mouth gives the barest sign of a twitch.

Bond chuckles. "No, you didn't, did you? The thing is, out in the field, it's never like this. Think you can still hit the target when you're distracted?"

Villiers releases a put-upon sigh. "If I do, will you stop hiding out here and see M?"

"Sure," Bond agrees cordially. He can afford to be gracious, seeing as this is not a game he intents to lose. And if his smile is still a little too sharp and too predatory to be nice, well, it comes with the territory.

He watches Villiers roll his eyes and take aim, facing away from Bond. His whole body tenses up as Bond steps behind him, and Bond knows exactly what Villiers is thinking, how he's expecting a knife against his throat, a second gun digging into his ribs, a lighter going off next to his face. Instead, Bond takes a step closer and moulds himself tight against Villiers, shifting until his groin is pressed snug against Villiers' arse, making sure he'll feel Bond's erection.

Villiers fires and hits target, just a few inches off-centre. He turns his head and angles it backwards, his hair brushing Bond's cheek, tickling his nose.

"How's that for distracted?" he asks. His voice is low and unusually dark, and then he leans back a little, just enough to let Bond know that he's doing it on purpose. But when he speaks again, his tone is back to normal and all-business: "M is waiting, Bond."

When he makes a move as if to leave, Bond grabs his arm. "We're not done yet."

There's no protest this time. Villiers wordlessly reloads and adjusts his stance. Bond closes the distance between them again until there's no room for air between their bodies. Then he reaches around to unbuckle Villiers' belt, sliding one hand into his pants. There's a sharp intake of breath from Villiers as Bond's fingers close around his, and Villiers takes the shot. Bond's eyes briefly flicker over to the target, noting with some satisfaction that Villiers' concentration seems to be slipping. He starts to move his hand, setting a steady rhythm that makes Villiers' breath hitch and his aim sloppy. The angle is less than perfect, but it'll have to do, and getting to watch one of Villiers' shots miss the target completely is an adequate compensation.

He picks up speed and his grip grows firmer, just this side of painful he suspects, but Villiers never protests. When Bond feels the body against his tensing up, he leans forward until his lips brush against Villiers' ear, deliberately letting his teeth graze the tender skin for a second.

"_Now_," he orders, and Villiers takes one last shot at the target right as his orgasm ripples through him. For a moment, they both stand with their bodies touching, laboured breathing cutting through the silence.

Bond slips his hand out of Villiers' pants and steps back, making the other man stumble forward a little as Bond releases his hold on him. He looks to the target and frowns at the bullet hole that's sitting right in the middle of the red area. The last shot went dead centre. It could have been coincidence, of course... but really, what are the odds? He wonders if Villiers had been messing with him from the start.

"Impressive," he says impassively.

Villiers smirks a little. "Thank you. I assume that means you consider my shooting skills adequate?"

"Possibly."

He wipes his hand on Villiers' discarded jacket, leaving a smear of white and rumpled fabric that Villiers regards with distaste and annoyance.

"Did you have to do that?"

Bond shrugs and smiles. "You should have thought to bring paper wipes. Shall we go, then? Wouldn't want to keep M waiting and all."


End file.
